


Memento Mori

by CatS81



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Douglas Whump, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Past Character Death, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 05:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3557330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatS81/pseuds/CatS81
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a significant anniversary, Douglas looks back with sorrow and finally admits the painful truth about his first marriage....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memento Mori

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: ‘Cabin Pressure’ sadly does not belong to me – all characters were created, and rightly belong to, the amazing John Finnemore.
> 
> So, I guess this could be classed as slightly AU in that I'm proposing a different take on Douglas' marriages, and in particular, his first marriage and how it ended - please be warned that it's not a happy tale and may definitely be triggering for some people. Also, aside from Helena, I've made up the names of his first and second wives (with a little nod to another of my fandoms, 'Waking the Dead' ;)) and I've used the name Emily for his daughter - I've seen it used in several others fics so for the sake of consistency I've used it too. Hope this is ok!
> 
> Other than that...erm....enjoy?!

He had never deliberately concealed it. It had simply been easier somehow to allow people to make assumptions, based on what they thought they knew of him, of his reputation. He had never corrected them when they balked at the knowledge of his three failed marriages, never interrupted to gently correct; he merely smirked along playing the part he was expected to play, ruthlessly supressing the chronically flaring pain. He had carefully crafted the role over the years, had smoothly perfected the nonchalance, the arrogance with which he supposedly approached relationships, and for the most part it suited him to perpetuate the stereotype. It prevented people from examining his past too closely, from forcing him to re-visit and explain it, and it allowed him to keep the memories at a relative distance whilst maintaining a front of deliberate indifference.

He sighed deeply, the air shuddering from his lungs and into the quiet stillness of the empty portacabin as he leant back against the couch. It was almost inconceivable that it had been thirty years; thirty years since his life had been irretrievably, irrevocably changed in the space of a few minutes, thirty years since he had felt his heart shatter into irreparable pieces and his life begin on the path to an alcohol-fuelled self-destruction. The time had passed in a paradoxical contradiction of an instant and an age, though he could scarcely believe that three decades had gone by without his being able to control its speed.

The first few years had been almost completely obliterated by grief and addiction, the former driving the latter to such an extent that he could barely recall the period with any clarity. Meeting Sarah when he did had quite literally saved his life, had dragged him away from the precipice, and Emily’s birth had given him an initial new focus, his damaged heart burning with a ferocious love for her tiny, precious bones. Despite his determined effort, he had been unable to prevent the sense of loss from intensifying as she grew older, his anxiety over her well-being sustaining his catastrophic behaviour, and Sarah had eventually lost patience, issuing an ultimatum she knew he was incapable of honouring. His affair with Helena had been the final nail in his coffin, and Sarah had moved herself and their daughter three hundred miles to the north, effectively minimalising his contact and further spearing his heart.

The initial raw agony had been responsible, at least in part, for his subsequent enslavement to the liquor and the toxic implosion of his second marriage; though crediting his dependence once the pain had dulled into a blunt shard was, he knew, little more than an excuse. It had taken him a long time to face what had happened, and an even longer time to stop apportioning blame for his resultant ensnarement; Helena, for all of her eventual faults, had been instrumental in opening his eyes and he was well aware that he would be perpetually indebted to her for helping him overcome his demons.

Losing Grace thirty years ago to the day had had massively far-reaching impacts on his life, and had changed its course beyond all his expectations. He had wondered endlessly over the decades how different his existence might presently be if not for the events of that fateful night; in his fantasy there was a blissfully long-lasting marriage, a woman aging beautifully surrounded by children and grandchildren, none of their happiness blighted by the oppressive cloud of his addiction. He had spent many years twisted with bitterness about the potential life he felt had been unfairly ripped away from him, about the downward spiral into alcoholism which had destroyed many elements of the life he had been left with. The passage of time had mellowed the regret, though each year on the anniversary he allowed his mind to linger wistfully on the might-have-beens, his heart heavy with how much he still missed her and the life they could have shared together.

He drew another slow breath, allowing the constrictive pain he ordinarily kept firmly at bay to writhe unrestricted against his ribs, almost revelling in the sensation despite the gnawing pressure it was causing in his throat, and he closed his eyes as he begrudgingly relinquished control to its powerful siren pull.

“Douglas? What the hell are you doing here?”

With a start, he felt his eyes jerk open towards the source of the demand, Carolyn Knapp-Shappey silhouetted in the doorway against the harsh glare of the winter sun, one hand resting on her shapely hip as she regarded him.

Douglas forced his practiced mask into place and raised a sardonic eyebrow, watching her as she stepped into the portacabin and approached him. “I _work_ here, Carolyn. Funny, that.”

“Hm,” she replied wryly, one hand moving to loosen the emerald scarf that adorned her neck. “I’m not sure I’d use that _particular_ verb in relation to what you do.”

He tried a smile, though he was well aware that it had failed to reach his eyes. “I show up and you pay me, don’t you?”

“Against my better judgement.”

“So there you go.”

“Anyway, semantics aside, you’re not _supposed_ to be here this morning.” She gestured in the direction of her office. “Not according to the wall chart, at any rate, if memory serves.”

He shrugged in feigned nonchalance. “Well, wall charts can lie. You’ve said that yourself on more than one occasion.”

“Indeed true. Although….”

“Anyway, we’re flying today; Prague, isn’t it?”

Carolyn gave a sharp shake of her head. “Not until 3 o’clock. As well you know.”

“Even so.”

“Even so, nothing.” She frowned darkly as she watched him, the concern radiating from her in waves causing a tightening embarrassment across his chest, and he supressed a sigh as she took a seat beside him and folded her hands in her lap. “I haven’t got the date wrong, have I?”

He found he was unable to meet her eye, her scrutiny amplifying his discomfort. “It’s fine.”

“You booked the morning off….”

“Well, now I’m un-booking it; surely that’s not a point of contention?”

“…and you didn’t answer my question.”

He exhaled heavily, his heart contracting as he struggled to control the spike of anguish at the uncharacteristic gentleness of her tone. “Carolyn….”

She raised a palm. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s up to you….”

“Obviously.”

“…but backing out of whatever it was you were planning is tantamount to cowardice, and you know it.”

He raised an eyebrow and looked across at her, momentarily disarmed by the determined set of her jaw and the devastatingly unflinching bluntness of her statement. “Kicking a man when he’s down, Lyn? That’s low, even for you.”

She sighed in admission, one hand straying to the back of her neck in discomfiture before she fixed him with a stoic glare anew. “Hiding in here isn’t an option, Douglas.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not _hiding_ ; that’s a ridiculous accusation.”

“Is it?”

“I’m _working_. You’re always nagging me about my log books and paper work; I thought perhaps I’d get ahead.”

“You thought nothing of the sort.”

“And you’re telling me what I think now, are you?”

Carolyn blew out an exasperated breath. “Oh, for goodness sake; are you going to leave of your own volition, or do I have to drag you out kicking and screaming?”

He held her gaze, dark eyes glittering as irritation knotted painfully in his gut. “That’s enough.”

“It’s for your own good.”

“I mean it, Carolyn. It’s none of your business.”

“It most certainly _is_ my business if I’ve got a depressed, distracted pilot.”

“And you really think having the morning off will solve that, do you? Given what you know about the particulars of today’s date?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, then.”

“But it might _help_ , is what I’m saying. It might be….that awful word Americans are so fond of…” She broke off and grimaced, apparently unwilling to vocalise the thought.

He groaned. “Oh, don’t. You’re just making it worse.”

“Cathartic.” She grinned triumphantly, her cerulean eyes sparkling. “There.”

He gave a snort of derision. “Well done. I’m surprised that didn’t choke you.”

“Not as surprised as I am, believe me.” She paused fractionally, allowing the atmosphere between them to settle into sobriety once more. “You should go, Douglas. I’m not going to argue about it.”

He regarded her with scepticism. “Since when have you _ever_ shied away from an argument?”

“Off you go.” She studiously ignored his question and looked pointedly at her watch. “Thirty seconds and then I’m frog-marching you out.”

“I’d like to see you try, Lyn,” he replied with a smirk, the obvious contrast in their statures and the image of her doing as she had threatened amusing him, momentarily taking the edge off his melancholia.

“Twenty-five; do you really want to put it to the test?”

“I rather would, actually, yes.”

She glared at him. “You’re trying my patience, Douglas; not a sensible thing to do at such a God-awful time of the morning. Twenty seconds.”

He held her gaze for a deliberately exaggerated period of time, the light-heartedness fading almost instantly into an oppressive cloud of austerity as they fearlessly stood their respective ground, blue eyes boring into brown. He could feel the tension that perpetually simmered between them intensify as each battled wordlessly to gain the advantage, aware that he was beginning to frown as the seconds stretched by, as he absorbed the increasingly sombre lines of her expression, the darkening cobalt of her intelligent eyes. _I’m not going to tell her. I am **not**_. He forced himself to rally, holding his features in a determinedly neutral bearing as her stare blazed into him, studiously ignoring the ruthless thumping of his heart as he became progressively uncomfortable beneath the weight of her assiduous glare. The steely grit of her countenance was the embodiment of what he was all too aware was a deeply profound concern for his well-being, and he felt his defences begin to splinter in a sudden and catastrophic cascade, breaking their eye contact as he felt his vision blur.

She had clearly noted the change in him, the increasing constriction of their stalemate, and her hand had almost drifted to his forearm before he rose quickly to his feet to avoid the contact, stalking blindly towards the door.

“Good decision,” Carolyn called after him in a falsely harsh tone, its strains grating against the edges of his rapidly fraying nerves. “I don’t want to see you back here before two.”

He broke his stride unbidden, unable to command his body to move further, his hand frozen against the door handle as his thoughts swirled in a haphazard fog, the words leaving his larynx in a strangled statement before he could stop them, the statement tumbling savagely into the air between them. “She was pregnant….”

Carolyn’s intake of breath was sharp behind him as she absorbed the intonation; he could almost hear the sob at the back of her throat as the air assaulted her lungs in shock. “Oh, God….Douglas….”

He inhaled in a shudder, clawing for composure as he turned slightly to face her, the rawness across his chest threatening to overwhelm him as he raised a pre-emptive palm. “Just….don’t….”

“I’m so sorry.” She watched him helplessly as he struggled to regain control, his broad shoulders heaving beneath the crushing weight of his anguished admission. “How far along?”

“Eight, nine weeks….” He shrugged despairingly and rubbed a hand roughly across his face, leaning his weight against the wall to conceal the tremors rippling through the lengths of his legs, the sudden unsteadiness of his gait .

Carolyn was, he knew, far from fooled as she commanded, “Come and sit down again, for God’s sake, before you fall over.”

He briefly considered a token protest before rejecting it almost instantly, silently obeying and moving to sit beside her anew, unable to stop the continued flow of his words through the obliterated dam. “She’d been to the GP that morning….”

“Oh, Douglas….” She lapsed into silence again, and he took the opportunity to breathe in slowly, allowing the air to circulate through his body as he fought his way back towards equilibrium.

“After it….” He faltered almost instantly and cleared his throat, slamming the cloying grief to the pit of his stomach, the words pouring from his body despite the protestations of his mind. “Afterwards…I couldn’t face telling her parents; what would have been the point?”

Carolyn exhaled in a gentle rush. “That was…terribly noble of you.”

He made a hollow sound of derision low in his throat. “Nobility didn’t come into it. Your earlier assessment was far more apt, as it happens.”

“Cowardice?” She shook her head vehemently and leant towards him in earnest. “For goodness sake, Douglas, you were trying to _spare_ them.”

“ _I couldn’t_ face telling them, Lyn.”

“Because you didn’t want to compound their pain presumably.” She frowned, the delicate lines on her forehead deepening as a notion apparently occurred to her. “Have you kept this to yourself for _thirty years_?”

He released a pent-up breath and allowed himself to fall back against the sofa, his eyes staring unfocussed at the ceiling as his neck intersected with the soft fabric. “And what would have been the alternative?”

“Opening your damned mouth, as a starter-for-ten.” Her tone was brusque, though he could plainly hear the layers of anguish that underpinned her words. “Accepting help when….”

“No,” he interjected raggedly, the objection reverberating against the bones of his chest. “They had their grief, and I had mine.”

“And ne’er the twain shall meet?” Carolyn sighed in frustration. “No man is an island, Douglas.”

“You’re mixing your poets.”

“Irrelevant. You know exactly the point I’m making.”

He turned his head to look pointedly at her. “I’m opening my damned mouth now, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are; thirty years too late.”

“Oh, fine.”

“What I mean is…The only thing I can even remotely do for you now is kick you back out the door and insist you allow yourself some time for grief….”

“It’s been three _decades_ , Lyn.”

“Even more reason.”

He tried for a nonchalant shrug. “I’ve managed, haven’t I?”

“Have you?” Her question was sharp, characteristically shrewd. “Don’t tell me this didn’t contribute to the….”

“I didn’t say that. I said I’ve _managed_.”

“Yes, and I’ve seen your method of _managing_ first-hand.”

He exhaled in a cloud of irascibility, the undeniable truth of her statement and its implications needling beneath his skin. “Just stick the knife in a bit deeper, why don’t you?”

She rolled her eyes and ignored him. “Why didn’t you tell anyone after more time had passed, at least? Your subsequent wives, for instance?”

“Yes, that would have gone down really well with Sarah, wouldn’t it?” His tone was acerbically cutting. “‘Darling, Emily isn’t technically my first child; the loss of said child and the woman I loved more than I could ever love you is what’s driven me to…’”

“Oh, come on. It’s called _empathy_ , Douglas; God knows it might have given her a bit more of an insight as to what was going on inside your head.”

“I didn’t _want_ her inside my head; that’s the point.”

“And Helena?”

He grunted, bitterness curling itself tightly about his vocal chords as he affected his imagined words. “‘Darling, the small matter of your infertility is immaterial to me; I’ve had two children already. What’s that? Why have I only ever mentioned Emily? Oh, no matter; it’s really not important.’”

“Ah.” Carolyn’s monosyllabic response was unusually soft as she absorbed the intensely private revelation about his former wife.

“I mean, they knew about Grace, obviously; though they’re only among a handful that do.”

“That never made sense to me either: this absurd pretence that you’re thrice-divorced.”

He sighed. “It’s simply what I’ve allowed people to assume.”

“Yes, but _why_?”

He gestured vaguely. “Oh, Christ knows. Something about preserving my reputation as a….”

“Philandering moron?”

He felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth despite himself. “I prefer ‘Sky-god-meets-sex-god’.”

“Of course you do.” She tutted long-sufferingly and he was unable to prevent the broadening of his grin, the sorrow in his chest abating slightly and softening into something approaching sentimentality.

He allowed his eyes to close as the silence stretched between them into solemnity anew, inhaling and exhaling slowly in a calming circular motion before addressing her again, his gravelled voice pitched deeply in his chest. “I’ll be back before two.”

Carolyn made a fierce sound of disapproval. “You’ll be back _at_ two, Douglas, and not a minute before.”

He opened his eyes to look at her, his head still tilted back against the sofa. “Do you know something, Carolyn…I think my watch may actually have broken.”

She narrowed her eyes sceptically. “You’ll have no cause to come back early, then, will you?”

“Well, it’s either that or risk me being late.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He gave a soft chuckle at the trademark caustic warning before forcing himself to rise to his feet, the ache in his heart magnifying with each step he took away from her and her oddly comforting presence. “I’ll see you later, then,” he told her, snagging his jacket from its hook and tossing it casually across his shoulder as he risked a glance back towards her.

“You most certainly will,” she replied mildly, her eyes tracking his movements even as her succeeding words halted him anew. “I know you didn’t plan it, Douglas….”

“Is that an existential statement, Carolyn?”

“…but I’m glad you told me, all the same.”

He held her eye, feeling a wave of warmth wash over him at the atypical tenderness of her tone, the sentiment that was enveloped in her words, and he gave a clipped nod, willing away the stubborn lump in his throat that was suffocating any potential reply.

“Go on, then,” she continued after a long moment, her voice edged once more with its customary abrasiveness as she stood from the sofa and began to head towards her office. “Quickly, before I change my mind.”

He watched her disappear into her inner sanctum without a backward glance, inordinately grateful in contradiction both for her compassion and for the resumption of her business-like sharpness, the diversity in her approach inexplicably lightening the load in his chest. With a fortifying intake of breath, he opened the door to the portacabin and stepped across the threshold to face his poignantly bittersweet morning of remembrance, to again revive the memory of the woman he had once called his wife and the child she had beautifully, briefly carried.

FIN


End file.
